Broken Things
by DJRyce
Summary: AU ficlet, Post-Eggtown. What if Sawyer were the last member of the Oceanic Six? How does his new life off the island fit in with the future and what happens when he gets a surprise visit from his favorite survivor? Please R&R.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I am in no way affiliated to ABC or "Lost." These characters are the sole property of their writers and producers, but the plot is entirely my own. The lyrics which became the inspiration of this ficlet is "This Love," from Maroon 5's album "Songs about Jane."

The timeframe of this story is little while after the events of "Eggtown." The Oceanic 6 are currently on their way back home.

* * *

It was the last night. Tomorrow morning, at approximately 6:42 AM the ship would dock in Fiji. From there, shuttles would take them to the international airport. From there, they were fly wherever they liked.

Sawyer lay on the cramped double bed in his cabin, his fingers intertwined behind his head, staring aimlessly at the ceiling. At the foot of his bed, he had neatly placed his worn messenger bag and a Dharma duffel bag he had salvaged from the hatch. It was surprisingly difficult for him to sift through all the belongings he had accumulated over the course of three months and decide what would have to stay on the island. Some of his original clothing maintained sentimental value by sheer fact that it survived the flight. It was neatly folded in the bottom of his duffel bag. He was surprised how reluctant he felt to part with his growing collection of books. In fact, he ended up throwing out a bulky pair of hiking boots in order to make room for some of the new novels he acquired from Ben's house.

He was still having trouble readjusting to the feel of a bed at night. Although he relished lounging and reading in a cushy piece of furniture, he was never quite able to fall completely asleep. Over the last few nights, the only way he was able to get any rest at all was by wrapping himself in the comforter and sleeping on the floor. Considering that the next morning he would be embarking on a 26 hour flight to LAX, he decided that he would just stay in the bed. If anything, it would give him time to think.

Almost on cue, there was a soft knocking on the door. Sawyer sat up instantly, his heart thumping heavily. Even though he knew they were off the island, his instincts were still trained to react to sudden noises. It was not a coincident that he also recognized the knock. "Come in?"

The sound of the doorknob turning and gears clicking was deafening. The rusty hinges creaked noisily as the door eased opened. A figure emerged from the shadows, but he knew who it was already.

"Kate..."

She squeezed her lithe body through the doorframe and stood, her back pressed against the door. She stared at him, doe-eyed and visibly nervous. Over the last few days, he had seen a lot of her, albeit from a distance. There were some tense incidents in which they stole furtive glances at eachother, only to look away and pretend to be engaged with what they were doing. They hadn't spoken to each other since she returned to the beach after that fateful night in the bedroom. The thought alone made him wince.

He took a moment to drink her in. She was wearing a floral print sundress. Judging from the way it hung on her body, it seemed as if somebody with higher hips and narrower shoulders had stretched it out from prior wear. If he had to guess, he would wager that she borrowed it from that new redhead, Charlotte. Although the cut wasn't the most flattering, the femininity of the dress suited her well, and the soft colors of the fabric complemented her skin and hair. He admired her appreciatively.

"Sawyer…" She shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of his gaze. She tried again. "James… can I come in?"

He'd be lying if he were to say he was completely surprised to see her, but he tried to look as nonchalant as possible. He scooted back against the headboard of his bed, gesturing for her to join him. He couldn't help but smirk when her eyes widened in panic, darting around for any alternatives. Obviously, she hadn't thought about the fact that the bed was the only piece of furniture in the tiny cabin.

Reluctantly she took a seat at the edge of the bed, taking care to pull down the hem of her skirt. He crossed his arms and exhaled audibly. His glare was making her uncomfortable, but at the moment, he really didn't seem to care too much. She continued to avoid eye contact, which only intensified the thick silence between them. He would have scowled for much longer, except he was beginning to get tired and curiosity got the better of him. Finally, he cleared his throat. Visibly startled, she couldn't help but turn to look at him.

"I'm not gonna try anythin' Kate. 'Specially not with that mean southpaw of yours." In a weak attempt to break the ice, he smiled at her congenially, but not without sarcasm.

Fortunately, she was responsive to the gesture and laughed. It instantly brightened the relative dimness of the room. "Look…"

From the moment she started, he could tell from her body language that she felt more relaxed. He also surmised that she had wanted to have this talk for a while now, but she had no idea how to start. He patiently waited for her to continue. "I know things have been a little… weird since we saw eachother last."

He scoffed loudly.

She nodded in acquiescence and corrected herself. "Okay, _really_ weird. But I really want to know… why are you doing this? Why'd you change your mind?"

Sawyer sighed loudly, slumping back against the headboard.

She continued, her voice quavering slightly. "It's just… I wanted to make sure it wasn't because… you know."

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "What do you want me to say Kate?"

She scooted closer to him, so she was peering at his face. Gently she tried to ease her hand into his. "I just wanted to make sure you were doing this for the right reasons."

He laughed throatily, a sound that filled the room. "And what, pray tell would be a 'right' reason? One that doesn't involve you, right?"

Her eyebrows furrowed, puzzled. He chuckled again, sardonically. "Yer just so damn cute when yer flatterin' yourself, Freckles."

She wasn't sure what she was expecting tonight, but his harsh tone stung more than she expected. She wasn't even sure what he meant, but she dropped his hand immediately.

His own reaction was immediate. "Hey, what did I tell you about makin' this about you? You were the one that walked out on me, remember? If I recall correctly, I was the one that got slapped in the face. Literally. So don't give me that hurt puppy look."

He swung his legs off the bed and circled so he was facing her. "You really wanna know why I'm on this boat? I may not have anythin' waiting for me back home. But if you leave, Kate? I have even less of a reason to stay."

He exhaled sharply. She swallowed, looking up at him with anticipation. Her eyes were wet but eager. Despite his bitterness, he really never stood a chance when she looked at him like that.

He crouched down and leaned in closely so he could speak softer, gentler. "Now I know that once you step on your plane, and I step on mine, we'll probably never see eachother again. I understand that, and I accept it. But the fact is, somehow… if by some random twist of fate… the odds are just much better if we're in the same hemisphere."

Silent tears were streaming down her face, and she had to look away. She couldn't bear seeing the sincerity in his eyes, the resignation in his voice. She shook her head, sniffing quietly. "James… we can't."

He sighed, frustrated and peeved again. "Goddammit, you can't what, Kate? What? What is it about us, about _me_, that makes it so hard for you to believe that we could possibly have a chance?"

After a few more sobs, she regained her composure. She answered, her voice hollow but steady. "I'm sick of running, James. I can't do it any more."

For a moment he was speechless. Absently he ran a hand through his hair "What the hell does that even mean? You don't want to run?"

She gently held the bridge of her nose, and he could tell she was getting impatient. Her tone was growing more defensive. "You just don't get it do you, Sawyer? I'm already a wanted fugitive, I don't want to be a conman's girlfriend. I don't want that life."

She almost spit those words: "conman's girlfriend." If he wasn't so shocked by the notion, it probably would have hurt. But at the moment, he was more dumbfounded at the realization that the two of them were on such drastically different wavelengths.

"Kate…are you fuckin' serious? What the hell makes you so damn sure that things are gonna be that way? Or did it never occur to you things could be different?"

He started numbering off points on his fingers. "We're miracle survivors of a plane crash. We're gonna be celebrities when we get back. There'll have sponsorships, publicity spots, VIP treatment, you name it. I won't have to con. Hell, I won't even be Sawyer anymore. I don't need to be."

He realized he was probably sounding pretty condescending. In desperation, he added, "I wasn't lyin' when I said I don't have any ties. We could go anywhere you wanted…"

It all sounded so pretty. Like a fantasy, even. She shook her head vigorously, unwilling to believe. She spoke slowly but with conviction. "You con, I run. Tiger never changes its stripes."

A lump rose in his throat, and he physically couldn't speak. No breath came out. She could see that he was crushed, and it was breaking her heart to keep going. "I…I talked to Jack. He told me I could hide at his place until--"

"No. You stop right there." The tone of his voice had changed drastically. It was soft now, menacing. She couldn't help but sit transfixed as he interrupted.

"You wanna shack up with Jack? Fine, it's not like I'm surprised. But at least have the courtesy to call it for what it is. Don't feed me some bullshit about how you want some God damn stability. I offered that to you at the house, and I offered that to you just now."

He raised his voice as his temper began to flare, his poise wavering. In a moment of weakness, he finally asked the question that had been plaguing the back of his mind for months. "For God's sakes, Kate! When the hell am I goin' to be good enough for you?"

He regretted the words as soon as he said it.

She quickly stood up from the bed and headed for the door. "This was a bad idea…I shouldn'tve come."

"Wait." A strong hand wrapped forcefully around her wrist, pulling her close to him. She could feel his warm breath on her forehead. Feel his chest rise and fall against hers. "I didn't mean that. Don't go."

He leaned in close to her, his long blonde hair cascading around her face. The stubble of his chin tickled her skin, their noses barely brushing against eachother. He leaned in close, growling into her ear. "Stay. Stay with me Kate."

The sensation of his voice in her ear sent a trail of chills down her neck. The touch of his skin set her own afire. She shut her eyes, expecting him to sweep her up in his powerful embrace, preparing herself for letting him, but he didn't. He didn't push. He didn't even move.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and they were in the exact same position. His blue eyes fixated on hers, staring hungrily. Longingly. He whispered again. "Don't you even want to find out?"

Her lip quivered as she tentatively edged millimeters closer, closing the minute gap between them. She licked her lips as she softly, gingerly opened her mouth in invitation. She felt his wet, chapped lips sweep gently against hers. For a few brief moments, she allowed herself to sink into his touch, his scent, his taste.

Then, she pulled away. Her eyes were shining with fresh tears. She whimpered, "I can't do it, James. I'm so sorry."

She came up on her toes to hug his neck tightly with her free arm. She felt his arms wrap around her back, reciprocating with a passion and tenderness she knew she didn't deserve. Burying her head into his shoulder she whispered, "Goodbye, James."

To Sawyer, it felt like slow motion. She pulled herself away from him, opened the door, looked back at him once more, and the last thing he could remember was the sound of the door clicking shut.

_Whispered goodbye and she got on a plane  
__Never to return again, but always in my heart  
__This love has taken it's toll on me  
__She said goodbye too many times before  
__Her heart is breaking in front of me  
__I have no choice, cause I won't say goodbye anymore_

* * *

**A/N: **The next two chapters of this story have been in my mind for a few months now, but after the events in "Eggtown," I felt compelled to take it in a slightly different direction. I'm not quite sure how I want to end this story, but I do know that I want to focus on what Sawyer does in the future. Now that Season 4 has started, I will try to keep it somewhat consistent to canon, while also taking various liberties. All reviews are greatly appreciated. 


	2. Chapter 1

"Mr. Ford?"

James stood hunched over a small table, his knuckles clenched tightly against the sides. His eyes closed, he took several cleansing breaths in hopes of calming the nagging churning in his stomach. _Lies. They're all lies. _

"Mr. Ford?" The young slim redhead repeated, a little louder this time. She shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, checking her watch and then back at him. Obviously, she wanted to catch his attention without disturbing him.

James exhaled sharply, fighting down the taste of bile rising in his throat. He straightened himself, tugging at the bottom of his shirt to flatten out any wrinkles. He shrugged his shoulders a couple times, and shook his head as if to clear any errant or negative thoughts. He still couldn't get used to the unexpected lightness of his shorter haircut, the openness against his shoulders. _Pull it together, James. _

The redhead made one last feeble attempt. "Mr. Ford?"

He finally turned to face her. "Sorry, sweetheart. I didn't hear ya the first time."

She staggered back a few steps, seemingly surprised by his height. "Uhm… are you alright?"

"Yeah… it's just a little case of the butterflies, is all." _It never gets any easier. _He flashed a genial smile. Her pale cheeks suddenly flushed to match her hair, and she bubbled over.

"I can't believe you still get nervous, you must do this all the time."

He shook off the last bit of jitters, much more accustomed to this type of behavior from females. Last week he had the women from _The View_ swooning, including Whoopi. "Were you tryin' to tell me somethin', Red?"

"Uhm…" She stammered, frantically searching her mind for the important message she was supposed to relay to him. "Uh… they wanted me to tell you that… uh… to get ready. After your introduction and the reading, we'll have maybe… half an hour for questions?"

He was amused with the how unsure she sounded, but he nonetheless tipped his head, nodding obligingly. Again, he was slightly surprised with how little of his dirty blonde hair swept against his face anymore, but he quickly disposed of those absent thoughts. "Sounds like a plan."

The redhead looked incredibly pleased with herself, positively beaming. She was moving awkwardly, as if she were fighting to keep from bouncing on the balls of her feet. He paused, waiting for her to respond, but she just kept smiling vacantly.

_Now this is just getting annoying. _He searched frantically for a reason to excuse himself, finally settling on the most simple, if not most crude. Flashing his winning smile, he pointed at the door. "If it's alright with you, I'm gonna run to the little boys room to freshen up."

She nodded eagerly in agreement.

"Right…I'll see you later then." Promptly, he darted out of the tiny room into the hallway. He quickly glanced in either direction to check whether he could make a clean break. Although there was a growing hum of noise coming from behind the large wooden doors, the hallway had mostly been sealed off. Satisfied, he trotted into the hall, only to dive into the nearest mens room, just a few doors down.

Not actually having any urge to use the facilities, he settled for unnecessarily washing his hands and patting his face with the damp hands. The coolness of the water felt refreshing against his smooth, clean-shaven face. He peered deeply into his reflection in the mirror, still unnerved by the sight he saw. It was ironic too, since it's not like he really had a mirror on the island. It was more that he had grown so accustomed to the unruly appearance of guys like Jin and Desmond that he simply formed a mental image of himself with a mess of long hair and a Robinson Crusoe-style beard. Whether his self-image was actually accurate or not, the actual reflection looked nothing like it. It was an unnerving sensation, like looking at somebody you vaguely recognize but can't for the life you place. What was more even unsettling, in the back of his head, he knew it wasn't so long ago that he played the role of the suave, entrepreneurial business man. _Damn, that felt like a lifetime ago. _

He shook his head and chuckled at his own sentimentality. He quickly had to remind himself that whether he wanted to admit it or not, relatively little had changed. He had started pulling cons since the moment he stepped onto the freighter. _In fact, my next one is scheduled in…_

He stole a glance at his watch. "SONNUVABITCH!"

He yanked open the bathroom door and sprinted back towards the dressing room. A smallish young man with overstyled hair and overly tight pants was anxiously waving him over to the thick velvet curtain. He looked like he owned three Dashboard Confessional albums. His heart was pounding in his chest as he crept closer to the boy. Vaguely, he could hear the amplified voice echoing against the high ceiling and wooden floor.

"…_made possible by the student activities which you paid for…"_

The emo kid hissed frantic directions in his ear, but he had problems concentrating on the whispering while the mic was projecting. "Be sure to watch the clock, David will be in the back holding up his fingers…"

He nodded without really paying attention, his eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the darkness behind the curtain. Occasionally, he caught pieces of the buzzing in his ear and the echoing outside.

"..._feel free to join the Student Event Services Committee if you would like…"_

"The university paper will take pictures, but won't ask questions…"

"…_student government elections will start next week…"_

"…we'll set up tables on the floor at the end …"

"…_voted nonfiction of the year..." _

Instantaneously, he snapped back to attention. Over the last few months, he had figured out that most introductions more or less sounded the same. He had trained himself to tune-in to a few key phrases. He finally turned to face the emo kid who was flashing him a thumbs-up sign.

"…_The Student Events Center at the University of Texas proudly presents James Ford, survivor of Oceanic flight 815, author of the New York Times best seller '__**Lost**__'" _

He grinned widely whispering "Show time," more to himself than his emo companion. Shaking his head one last time, he stepped out onto the stage.

Immediately, he was blinded by the white-hot glare of two spotlights trained on his face. It felt like slow-motion as he blinked several times, willing his eyes to adjust to the light. As his sight began to sharpen, he could make out the shapes of hundreds of bodies on their feet. There were a few blips of bright flashes—cell phones and cameras.

Immediately, he was assaulted by the sound of raucous applause and cheering. They were giving him a standing ovation. He fought to quell the rapid pounding in his chest and clamminess on his palms as he approached the podium. As he neared the lectern, the entire audience sat back in their chairs, filling the auditorium with the sound of scooting chairs and shuffling clothing. For a few painstaking seconds, the room was silent in anticipation barring the occasional cough from listeners who wanted to clear their throat one last time. All eyes were on him.

Tentatively, he leaned towards the microphone. He was ready to greet the crowd when suddenly audio feedback from the microphone sent an excruciating shriek throughout the auditorium. _Shit!_ He immediately jumped back, distancing himself from the instruments until the sound dissolved. Cautiously, he approached the lectern again, slower this time. When no unpleasant reverberation occurred, he made a triumphant fist pump which elicited light laughter from the audience. Although the positive reaction was encouraging, he could not shake the feeling of anxiety that accompanied all his "performances." The slightest slip-up or even unconvincing delivery could expose him, which would be both scandalous and disastrous. Tonight was his biggest crowd yet. There was absolutely no room for error. There were so many factors to consider: _Just be a professional._ _Play-up the accent, but don't overdo it. Be charming, but not sleazy. _

With as much Southern charm as he could muster, he started, "Evenin' University of Texas!" The response was immediate, as hundreds of students cheered and whooped.

After a few brief seconds, he continued, "I'm goin' to be readin' from the prologue." Immediately the cheering died down and a hush went through the auditorium. There was a rustling of paper as some students started riffling through their own copies of the book. It was a neat trick he had picked up several months earlier: after establishing a rapport, shift abruptly back to business. It was an effective method of maintaining control of the situation. The more control he had, the less likely he would make a careless mistake and blow his cover.

He reached into his front jacket pocket and plucked out his pair of "island glasses," fused from the parts of three different pairs salvaged from the wreckage. Although he now owned several stylish wire frames with his precise prescription at home, he found the response to the milquetoast frames to be overwhelmingly positive. He used it as a gimmick. He cleared his throat softly, before reading aloud the words he had recited so many times.

"On September 22, 2004, flight Oceanic 815 from Sidney, Australia lost cabin pressure and plummeted into the South Pacific. I was fast asleep in seat 15D."

His voice quavered at first, and he had to swallow before continuing. "I felt something tickling the side of my nose. When I opened my eyes, there was an oxygen mask dangling in front of my face."

The more he read, the less he had to worry about thinking. It was like shifting into autopilot, he easily had the entire passage memorized—the glasses were really just for show. After countless late nights writing and editing and dissecting each line, it was as if each word, each carefully selected and painstakingly precise word, were etched onto his heart. And that was the way it had to be. Any ambiguity or careless slip-up could blow the entire cover. No, he knew the story was airtight—it was just a matter of selling it.

For this reason, his voice began to rise as he continued with his reading. He colored his performance with subtle turns of inflection and dramatic hand and facial gestures for flourish. He would pause when it was natural, speed-up in particularly wordy sections. He felt very comfortable reading aloud, but he still could not shake the feeling of nostalgia as he could not help but be reminded of the nights Charlie forced him to read automotive magazines to Aaron. He tried not to let his mind wander too much as he neared the end of his passage.

"…the eight of us, including a woman that was six-months pregnant and a big sweaty guy who needed two seats on the airplane, were crammed onto a raft built for six. Being the chivalrous, alpha male machistas we were, us guys began taking turns rowing towards that hazy green bump we saw on the horizon. It wasn't until we got on the island did we learn that the pregnant broad had more balls than the rest of us combined."

With that, he gave one last lopsided smile, relishing the moment of silence as he finished his reading. He exhaled one last time before softly closing the book and easing his glasses off his face, slipping them back in his pocket. As the hall filled with the sounds of clapping, he kept his gaze fixated on the stylish blue and green cover, not looking up. He wasn't avoiding eye contact for any particular reason other than the maudlin detachment somehow made him seem more artistic, and audiences ate stuff like that up. Finally, he cleared his throat one last time, the sound of the cough magnified by the microphone. Looking up at the audience, he beamed his dimpled smile. "Well, now that we got the formalities out of the way, do we have any questions?"

Through the dimness on the floor, he saw several bodies pop out of their chairs. He was expecting hands to fly and people to start shouting "Mr. Ford" loudly, so he was surprised when people quietly scuttled across the aisles. Squinting his eyes in the darkness, he realized that a few standing microphones had been set-up towards the front of the auditorium, and people were quickly forming lines behind them. He couldn't help but be a little impressed, and absently he wished that the pres could be as remarkably well-behaved as these college students.

From the side of the stage, a young man in a sharp looking suit spoke into a separate microphone. "We'll try to get in as many questions as we can. Please remember to keep them brief and appropriate. And please remember if you leave the ballroom, you will not be allowed to re-enter. If you would like to stay for a photo or autograph with Mr. Ford, we ask that you stay for the entire session."

From behind the lectern James chuckled. "Appropriate, huh? Well, I'll do my best to keep things entertaining."

The room burst into laughter, and he even heard a few whoops and catcalls from the female constituents. He delighted in this type of raucous banter, it was probably his forte when it came to newfound celebrity-dom. Lord knows how many panels and press conferences he had to suffer through while representatives from Oceanic or Jack, the self-anointed spokesperson, would drone on and on. This type of informal lecture was much more his cup of tea. Granted, he still had to stay alert to prevent making any potentially incriminating or inconsistent statements. Although he knew it was unavoidable, he secretly hoped he might get some original questions about something other than the events of the island described in his book. He preferred these irrelevant questions, since once in a while, instead of rehashing a rehearsed speech, he could actually give an honest answer. He found this rare occasion of candidness a strangely liberating sensation. He held as an anxious looking Asian guy approached the mic stand, clearly nervous about being the first speaker.

"_Mr. Ford? Is it true that they there is TV documentary of the Oceanic Six in the works?"_

_Ugh. _On one hand, James was relieved that the question didn't directly ask him to explain any events on the island. On the other hand, the media execs and their PR team had forced him to recite the ambiguously diplomatic and disgustingly uninformative answer.

"Yeah, there have been some preliminary talks about a variety of projects, but right now everything is still very much in the pre-production stages."

Even as the words came out of his mouth, he was disgusted by how stilted and artificial they sounded. For a split second, he felt like Condoleeza Rice—a sensation he would have preferred not repeating. At that moment he decided to tag-on a more personable answer.

"Of course, if the casting were up to me, I would want my role to be played by Brad Pitt. The resemblance is obvious." The room erupted in cheers and whistles.

He continued, "Now, I know in Texas you guys like Matthew McConaughey. I guess I can see the resemblance, but the accent's all wrong. If you ask me, it sounds a little fake." James winked as a few audience members sounded some playfully threatening "ooohs."

"_Mr. Ford? Your book has been winning writing awards left and right. Could you tell us some of the authors that inspired you?"_

James calculated for a minute_. _The question seemed harmless enough, he wouldn't have to censor much. He just had to make it clear that the bulk of reading he did was before the crash, since obviously, the Oceanic Six had very little time for idle reading. "Well, it's no big secret that I've spent some significant time in some… penitentiary facilities. I actually moved around a lot as a kid, so I was never really interested in reading then. Needless to say, once I got my jumpsuit, I had a lot more free time to catch up on my bedtime reading. It's not like they give you a library card in prison, so I wasn't particularly discerning with my literature. I'll be honest with you… I read lots of crap just 'cause it was available. The ones I really liked? Steinbeck, Hemingway, Marquez… Those guys just knew how to tell a good story, you know? Nothin' fancy, none of this political, philosophy mumbo jumbo. I know a lotta guys in prison are searching for meaning and whatnot, but I was just lookin' for something that was more entertaining than watching 'Maury' and 'Judge Judy' with the rest of the guys."

"_Mr. Ford? It seems that it's become very trendy for politicians to be writing their autobiographies last year. Do you have any thoughts on the elections coming up next year?"_

James smiled. While there was no risk of blowing his cover with this question, he had to be careful, lest he attract more media attention than he was prepared to deal with on a daily basis. He had to be diplomatic. "Well… I'm a little afraid to admit it because we're in Austin… but I've never voted Democrat." He could hear a few scattered boos in the audience. He feigned worry by playfully tugging at the collar of his shirt.

"Hey, you can't blame me for the last election! I was somewhere in the South Pacific that November, and ya'll thought I was dead so you threw away my absentee ballot…Maybe we should demand a recount."

The audience erupted into laughter, and James smiled because he realized that he could probably get away with sidestepping the question altogether. He finished up the session in high spirits. Predictably, he had to answer a few of the typical "survivor" questions he got every interview —what did you eat, how did you deal with Aaron's birth, are you afraid of airplanes, etc. etc. He had memorized his responses to these questions by heart, and by the end of the interview all of his nervousness and anxiety had dissipated.

When he finished, as expected, he received a respectably long standing ovation. He smiled and waved obligingly as he was escorted off the stage. He waited offstage as a large wave of students began an exodus to the exits, while a few lingerers began forming a line towards area directly in front of the stage the stage. Some of the backstage techies created some space amongst the crowd and began assembling a long, brown table. James assumed that they were preparing for the autograph signing. He contemplated stepping out for a cigarette break, but he ultimately decided that it would be better to wait until afterward.

Soon enough, the tight-pants emo kid approached him. After offering a few generic compliments, he escorted James down the auditorium steps and ushered him to a fold-out chair behind the table. A queue of students lined the side wall and curved around towards the entrance. James was relieved to note that the security guards had closed the doors, preventing any new entrants from coming in.

He nodded that he was ready, and the first lucky student shuffled towards the table and slid his copy of the book towards him. Like clockwork, he opened the cover, signed the inside with a generic thank you message, closed the book, smiled if there were a digital camera or cell phone, and shook the student's hand. It was like an assembly line, and he had mastered moving it along in an orderly, efficient manner. Still, he felt genuinely grateful for his fans, since their support allowed him to enjoy a gratifying sense of success and inclusion that he had rarely felt before. He tried his best to give every supporter a few valuable seconds of "individual time." Most of them would try to chat with him, and in those cases, he would try to answer. A few of the young women would want to hug him, and he would let them. Slowly, but surely the line began dwindling away. Unconsciously, he began scribbling his message a bit quicker and sloppier than the ones he had signed towards the start.

"Could you make it out to Austin, please?"

James chuckled softly, shaking his head. "They weren't jokin' about you guys bein' a proud Texan. You actually want me to make it out to the city?"

"Not the city. Austen with an 'e.'" In a breathy undertone, the woman murmured. "That's my name."

James' hand stopped, tightly gripping the pen. The deep intimacy of her voice spread through his chest with the same mix of warmth and sting as a straight shot of whiskey. For a split second, he could not will himself to move his hand. He could feel his heartbeat accelerate involuntarily, as he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure. Slowly and deliberately, he forced himself to raise his head, clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt so his face would not betray an emotional reaction.

Her disguise was simple but effective. Concealed behind large sunglasses and an oversized sweatshirt, she resembled an ordinary collegiate. A baseball cap covered most of her recognizable hair, although a few stray curls stubbornly peeked out. There was no denying it, it was her. A lump tightened in his throat, and as his lips parted, no words came out.

Immediately, she clasped her hand in his, shaking vigorously. "Thanks Mr. Ford. Your book really changed my life. It's an honor." She babbled quickly and audibly, flashing a bright smile. To any onlooker, it was just the smile of a starstruck fan. But to him, it was more. The way the corners of her mouth crinkled the dimples in her cheeks, the way she dropped her chin and raised the pitch of her voice as she continued to utter meaningless chatter. She was up to something.

He was in too much of a daze to resist as she wrapped her other hand around the back of his hand, so that both of her tiny hands were balled around his. She continued to bob her hands as if she were shaking them briskly, subtly molding her fingers around his hand. His arm felt limp in the socket as she finally released him.

"Have a great night, Mr. Ford!"

And she turned around and left.

_Kept playing love like it was just a game  
__Pretending to feel the same  
__Then turn around and leave again_

* * *

**A/N: **Apologies for the long break between chapters. I have had this chapter in my head for several months, but as I was watching the show unfold, I realized little changes I could make it gel more closely with canon. I hope you enjoy my alternate interpretation. I just kind of always imagined Sawyer would be a rock star when he returned from the island. Instead of lurking in the shadows all seedy like, he would milk the attention for all it was worth as an opportunity to recreate himself-- an indicator that he'd grown since the crash. Somehow the idea of him publishing a book fit. Please let me know what you think-- all feedback is greatly appreciated.


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